


On the Fringes

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Class Issues, M/M, Prejudice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:57:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7836562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eggsy becomes a knight of the Round Table, and it's not the happily ever after he had hoped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Fringes

**Author's Note:**

> futuredescending and I were discussing the what-ifs of what would go down if Eggsy became a Kingsman under Chester King's reign. This is what was born.

Harry finds Eggsy sitting, head bent over the hands draped between his legs. Every hair and every scrap of clothing is in place, except for the glasses, which are clutched very tightly in his left fist. He imagines going up to his protégé, gently sliding his fingers over to pry the glasses from Eggsy’s grip, and putting his arms around him, but only steps forward, calling out his name softly.

“I’m never going to be good enough, aren’t I,” he says dully, once Harry approaches.

Harry sits down beside him on the bench. “Eggsy—” he begins, but doesn’t know what to say. He can’t tell Eggsy _they didn’t mean it_ or _it’ll come to an end_ because none of those are true. No useless platitudes can help, and nor can reassurances of assistance. Ever since James died, Harry had lost not only a friend, but an ally, and Percival, ever since the man’s death, preferred solitude to the company of others. He’d tried to coax him back, but Harry’s people skills had never been particularly renowned, and eventually, he stopped trying.

“You told me that it’ll change my life, Kingsman,” Eggsy continues, voice hushed in the darkness, staring up at the gadgets that line the walls of Fitting Room Three. It was a good memory, showing Eggsy each clever device and watching his face light up in awe and disbelief, but now, in this dark space, with only faint gold glimmers lighting up the room, Harry can’t find himself to muster the usual joy. “And I can’t thank you enough for it: getting Mum and Daisy out of that place, a new flat and a new car and a second chance, all the places I get to see…”

Harry finds the courage to move closer. He can place a hand on Eggsy’s knee or arm, but instead touches the neutral place of his shoulder. He thinks, _I recruited you. I wanted this for you._

But now, he looks at the young man, sunk deep in his thoughts in this empty room. He sees a young man who swallows back his accent and tries hard to work of the sounds of home off his tongue, who checks every mirror he comes across for a stray strand of hair or a crooked tie, who takes the most dangerous missions with steely determination. There’s a new hesitance around Eggsy—no, not quite. Eggsy had been uncertain of himself from the first time they met, but he’d strolled into the tailor shop and into the lift at a promise of a new life.

He had gotten it, and Harry wonders if he made the right choice.

Of course he had, he would have said just two months ago, of course. Eggsy was a Kingsman. He’d proved himself, been touched on both shoulders with the polished Excalibur, became a knight of the Round Table.

But it hadn’t been enough, somehow. Harry had dreamed of bringing someone whose relative wasn’t a lord or filthy rich, someone who stood tall not because of a certain bloodline, someone who wasn’t the recycled brand of white and wealthy and male. The candidate process was ridiculously institutional, another old boys’ club, and Harry wanted to change that.

People had tried to propose new blood, but when that had failed, it was just another excuse to reinforce the idea of “the right sort was soft.” Women and other minorities were there in Kingsman, but in the shadows, the background, the backbone as various tech, medical, and administrative positions. Chester and the previous Arthurs had many so-called justifications of them being “too conspicuous” or “too difficult” in the field. And it had made sense, back when the agency was still trying to get its footing, to recruit the wealthy and male and powerful for their connections and steady flow of money. But times had changed. They _should_ change.

How stupid he had been, how impulsive and idealistic, not considering anything beyond a few murmurs of discontent for Eggsy. The training period, with its sneers and shoves, should have warned him. The trip to buy Eggsy a bespoke suit, something he’d never worn in his life, should have given him pause. The down-turned lips of Chester every time Eggsy was mentioned should have made him think.

This—Eggsy sitting alone and beaten down by people he was supposed to trust with his life—is his fault.

Harry can explain this all to Eggsy, but it isn’t the right time. All he can do is say, rather uselessly, “You have every right to be here.”

“I appreciate the thought, Harry, but…I just don’t belong, all right?” Eggsy shakes his head. “The agents hate me. Arthur hates me. The only people who seem okay with me are you and Merlin.”

“Eggsy,” Harry tries, but Eggsy shakes his head again.

“I’m not asking for pity. And I know what you’ve been trying to do.” He looks straight at Harry, chin raised, eyes prideful and guarded. “You can’t defend me forever to them. I can _handle_ this. Okay?”

Harry selfishly wants to take Eggsy into his arms, press him against his chest, have a hand moving through the stiff strands. He wants to be his knight, sword and shield, again. He wants his lips to form the words that will make Eggsy smile and take courage to look the other agents in the eye with no doubt in himself.

But he knows he can’t.

“I know you can,” Harry says, “but don’t let this be a burden solely on your shoulders. I—”

“You can’t do a thing, Harry,” Eggsy replies, and the worst thing is that he doesn’t sound accusing in the least. Just honest. Resigned.

“Eggsy,” he tries, “come to my house this evening. We can have drinks, and I can order some takeaway and pull out my DVD collection. Anything you like. Six o’clock.” He can almost picture it: Eggsy in his old trainers and snapback, face warm and flushed in the soft lighting of the front room, smiling at him. It would be like their twenty-four hours together, if he could persuade Eggsy to stay for breakfast. To just give him some quiet, some acceptance, far away from Kingsman.

Eggsy looks at him, and something dawns in his eyes. “I’d like that,” he finally admits, “but I—”

His glasses then beep, a green light flashing near the corner of the right lens. Eggsy frowns, slipping them back on, and says hurriedly, “Right, right. Yes, of course, I’ll be there.”

He then smiles stiffly, straightens up in his armor, and stands up, spine straight. “If you excuse me, Galahad, I have a mission to prepare for.” His Queen’s accent is flawless.

Harry wordlessly nods.

He remains sitting, hand still outstretched, the feel of fine wool and strained muscle still lingering on his fingertips, as Eggsy walks out the door.


End file.
